


Vices

by Redbreast (orphan_account)



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Adult in a Position of Power, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 09:13:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Redbreast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is abhorrent, as far as Bruce is concerned.  Jason knew this by the line of his mouth, the set of his brows, as he no longer bothered to try and conceal the hooding of his eyes, the vicious, appreciative efficiency of every crook of his finger.  He's resigned himself to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vices

"Bruce, it's-"

Uncomfortable is the first thing that comes to mind, but... no, not really. This is what he's been lobbying for, the negligible Robin shorts slung low on his hips with a switch in his step he's only ever seen down on Van Buren street, on the shivering, jaded prostitutes with their beautiful faces so painted that even the inherent bitterness of their countenance isn't enough to turn the lusty away from the pretty picture they make.

This is abhorrent, as far as Bruce is concerned. Jason knew this by the line of his mouth, the set of his brows, as he no longer bothered to try and conceal the hooding of his eyes, the vicious, appreciative efficiency of every crook of his finger. He's resigned himself to it.

Jason scoots farther up on the console, slender thighs parting as far as they'll comfortably go, the lines where the edge of the counter digs into them turning an angry red that stands out even against the pervading flush that curious, unexpected self-consciousness paints down his body, into the v of his hips and down the insides of his legs. It feels _weird_ , the intrusion, foreign in a way that makes it all his body can focus on.

" _You want this_?" Bruce had asked him. Jason had answered with his _teeth_.

" _Fine_.”

It was a momentous victory. 

They were in the cave— the Batman had already removed his cowl, but his presence remained, sitting like something more ancient than Jason has words for at the primary console, filling up the whole damn room without moving, without saying a word, and Jason had _wanted_ : an urge beyond anything logical. Had slunk over, the clasps of his vest undone, hanging limply away from his chest as his nipples pulled tight at the cold. He isn't impressive in the way Bruce is, big and thick and so solid it winds Jason sometimes, makes him stop and just breathe, just internalize. Isn't impressive in the way Dick is, legs that go on for miles and a certain continuity to his form, a line of action that draws attention fluidly to all of his best features; but Jason knows better than to think that Bruce wouldn’t want him like this. Slender, wiry with muscle his frame hasn't found room for, hips too narrow for shoulders this broad, broad enough that he knows he’s going to be _big_ one day, bigger than Dick, almost as big as Bruce, maybe. Knees that knock together, shins with sparse, straight hair augmenting them already, even at fourteen.

He'd straddled Bruce's thighs— more of a feat than he'd initially anticipated. The stretch of spreading his legs wide enough to bracket his mentor's was bizarre and exciting. Had pressed his calloused, thin-fingered hands to the symbol, the icon on that chest, sliding them lower, as low as he'd dared, and leaned in to press a kiss— or something resembling, at least, too wet and messy, unduly aggressive to be classified as anything so successfully romantic, successfully _sexual_ as a **kiss**.

And Bruce, looking like Atlas, had finally, _finally_ relented.

The stainless steel surface of the table is shockingly cold against his nipples, warming far more slowly than Jason would've liked, and despite the strangeness of it, the cousin of discomfort that was having one of Bruce's big, calloused fingers pushing in tiny increments into his ass, he was getting hard; even harder, as he focused on the hand anchoring his hip, big enough to span almost halfway across his stomach, grasping with bruising force at the protrusion of his hip bone, keeping him from squirming away as his body twitched and thrashed absently.

He's getting what he wants, and that— well, it doesn't make _breathing_ any easier, not with all of Bruce's unrelenting, surgical precision behind him, and he'd though there'd be more passion, more wild abandon, but-

There's something devastating about this, too. Because Bruce's body is a machine, and sex is an action, an exercise, something that Bruce would excel at simply by proxy of the obsessive control he wields over everything about his physical wellbeing. Sex with Jason isn't being treated like a guilty pleasure, something he didn't mean to give in to, can't find his way out of: it's being treated like a task, an action to execute, a means to an end. 

Because Bruce has resigned himself to being a horrible, horrible person, the kind that has sex with boys not yet through puberty, facing it with the same grim determination he faces menaces in the night. Jason knows this, knows that now that he's relented, the next time will be looser, more relaxed, more the cloying humid images he thinks of when the word 'sex' is murmured like a bad word within his earshot, even though the way Bruce is acting now reads as—

— _using_ Jason. Swift, mechanical motions, stretching him open, knowing what comes next: a prick in a place that it shouldn’t fit, isn’t intended to go, and sweat, and _noise_ , and Jay knows that that's not Bruce's thought process here, but the notion of being an item, a means to an end, where it once would have infuriated him has him wailing in startlement when his dick finally fills out enough to touch the painfully cold metal tabletop beneath him.

His entire body flinches, jerking up, away from that burning point of contact, and he nearly chokes on his own spit when it drives him farther onto Bruce’s finger just as another one is lined up next to it, slick and chilly with something nondescript he’d pulled from his belt when the first one had gone in— the vaseline-like compound they used for scrapes, probably.

“Bruce!”

It’s high and petulant, a tone for when Jason has reached the end of his rope, done playing nice or pulling punches or being ignored, bratty and devastatingly effective, even here. Bruce falters, for a moment, fingers still pressing, pressing into Jason in a way he can’t ignore, but gentling; the militant abruptness of his actions tapering off as he slows, seems to stop and internalize Jason in front of him, cheek pressed against the table, shoulderblades trembling as his fingers try to find purchase of a surface that has none.

He’s hesitant to introduce tenderness into this, because that will make it real—not just an awful, awful man doing an awful, awful deed, but luxuriating in it, indulging it, turning a singular offence into a proper vice.

Jason has no idea how the fuck Bruce came up with these lines of descending behavioral depravity in his head, but he’s one hundred percent _done_ trying to coddle the man by letting him stick to them, no matter how the idea of being ridden hard and put away wet makes the bottom of his stomach pool with something that he would’ve called shame if it weren’t for how violently it made his cock twitch.

It’s Bruce’s last line of defense, treating this with as much clinical, impersonal focus as the Mission, and Jason stone cold could not give any less of a fuck right now. He lets his whole body stretch out, knees sliding farther open on the frictionless surface, mouth open in a prolonged little moan of rapture mixed with agitation, Bruce, _Bruce_ —

It ends in a squeak when Bruce pulls him back into his lap. His face and pectorals are still pressing into the counter, but his dick is now wedged into the rough material of the batsuit in the crevice of Bruce’s closed thighs, knees knocking the arms of the chair, butt stopping a few inches short of where it would be pressing into the suit’s crotch guard.

Bruce’s fingers slip back into him, but there’s more rhythm now, more life, like Bruce really can’t help himself, and Jason can hear Bruce breathing, now, measured but deep, particular: aroused, Jason realizes, he sounds so goddamn _aroused_ , and that’s—he’s—

The hand that was on his hip smoothes up and down his back, now, nudging his dick just hard enough down with every pass across his lower back that it makes him start to whine, a high, embarrassing, _continuous_ noise that he can’t seem to stop now that it’s started, but that’s okay, because it makes Bruce inhale like he’s been _punched_ , and that’s still blowing Jason’s _mind_ (he’s getting fingered by the Batman and it’s making him _horny_ , Jesus _Christ_.)

He decides to ask. Because Bruce has given him this much. Because Bruce has never been able to say a proper, decisive _no_ to him, not _really._

“B, I want to—I mean, c-can we—“

“ _Yes._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Because Rachel was getting stupid anons yesterday.


End file.
